I've surprised myself.
They speak of sundays in a hushed tone, heads nodding toward the ground, eyes lily ( half) lidded, lips chapped and barely parted.
What happens to the child near the end of the evening, her spectators cannot discern. Behind the braced door, another world begins to form. Blue, black and violet. A Chrysalis molds around the bent boneworks and lace flesh. Entombing the slight spirit in the morose briars of the night and its mortality. She laces her fingers tight together making a two handed fist, trying to hold tight to the last of rationality. It's of no use. The destruction has already began.
Its hard to explain to those to who do not wish to understand.
How your mind can lose control of your hands.
How a girl can watch herself slowly killing, slowly dying.
and continue to do what the (quiet screaming, razor blade) demands.
Its a little left field of what she had planned.
maybe even a white picket fence and a broad chested man.
But her fear led her down a separate path
one she has trouble in looking back
and seeing the steps she can't retract.
opportunities left to rot.
dropped in the moonlight and festering in the sun.
If she could just keep those fingers clinging tightly. Alas, all on their own they begin to loosen and detach. She is almost unable to react, shutting her eyes, hoping to bind with loss of sight. No such luck as the hands continue the search and eventually find their quarry. A lone blade sprung from a pink disposable. One that touts its infused aloe with soothing abilities.
What happens to the child near the end of the evening, her spectators cannot discern. Behind the braced door, another world begins to form. Blue, black and violet. A Chrysalis molds around the bent boneworks and lace flesh. Entombing the slight spirit in the morose briars of the night and its mortality. She laces her fingers tight together making a two handed fist, trying to hold tight to the last of rationality. It's of no use. The destruction has already began.
Its hard to explain to those to who do not wish to understand.
How your mind can lose control of your hands.
How a girl can watch herself slowly killing, slowly dying.
and continue to do what the (quiet screaming, razor blade) demands.
Its a little left field of what she had planned.
maybe even a white picket fence and a broad chested man.
But her fear led her down a separate path
one she has trouble in looking back
and seeing the steps she can't retract.
opportunities left to rot.
dropped in the moonlight and festering in the sun.
If she could just keep those fingers clinging tightly. Alas, all on their own they begin to loosen and detach. She is almost unable to react, shutting her eyes, hoping to bind with loss of sight. No such luck as the hands continue the search and eventually find their quarry. A lone blade sprung from a pink disposable. One that touts its infused aloe with soothing abilities.